


fragmentary device

by nanrea



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Drabble Collection, Gen, One Shot Collection, ghost origins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-23 19:58:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanrea/pseuds/nanrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>one shots and drabbles. These were originally posted on my tumblr, posted here to have them all in one easy to find place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. boxes, man. goddamn.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've actually worked in factories, so this might be a little semi-autobiographical . . . the human origins of the Box Ghost. BEWARE!

You didn’t spend your life obsessed with boxes. Oh fuck no. You had dreams, man: aspirations. You know, for like, middle management or something. Alright, so you didn’t have big dreams. When you were first hired on at the factory though, they put you in packaging.

There’s not really enough to keep your mind occupied, working in packaging. The routine is easy, numbing, repetitious to the extreme on a twelve hour shift, and so you end up focusing on the boxes you fold open, tape shut. How perfectly you can square up the flaps, slap the tape on even and smooth across the bottom, a perfect flip through your fingertips. Slipping the product in, easy, and then shut, another smooth motion of tape across the top: a perfect box. Beautiful. 

Slipping the boxes onto the pallet give you something else to focus on while your mind wanders. Lining the edges of the boxes up with the slats of wood, making sure the stacks are straight, even, perfectly aligned. It’s satisfying, creating the perfect pallet, it gives you a sense of fulfillment that, at the end of the day, makes you feel kinda dumb. You spend your days stacking fucking boxes, holy shit, no one cares about how well you stack the damn things, but. 

It’s a job, and you do it well, and for twelve fifty an hour straight out of high school, it’s not as terrible as it could be even when you’re convinced you can feel brain cells dying of boredom.

And hey, your dedication and obvious care for your job lands you a promotion to shipping, where you get to drive a forklift around, and holy shit that’s surprisingly fun. Those things spin on a dime, almost literally, you tested it out. You take to spinning your lift around fast, when there’s a lull in the workflow. You start making a habit of take corners too fast sometimes, and drive through the warehouse at full speed all the time, especially when it’s unnecessary. You try not to think about the time you drove through a puddle on the concrete from a leaky air conditioner and the stripped, shitty wheels of your forks lost traction, and you almost crashed into a wall. 

That would have been a mandatory drug test. God you hate peeing in a cup. 

You kind of get well known, around the plant, as a bit reckless, but fast, and with exceptionally few mistakes at recording inventory changes, so they let it slide. And in a couple years you are settled comfortably into the job, whipping your little forklift around the plant, barely even noting the masses of inventory you handle every day beyond the necessity of recording department transfers into the database. You couldn’t care less about how perfectly the edges line up.

It’s kind of ironic, what kills you. You always figured it’d be crashing the forklift. But nope. Instead you’d just been walking through the warehouse, chatting with the supervisor, when another forklift driver slips on a puddle from that same faulty AC, rams into the rack you’re strolling by, and rattles the thing enough to destabilize a poorly stacked, unshrinkwrapped pallet on the top level, and the first couple rows of boxes fall off.

Bam, right on your head.

And the last thought that trickles through your head is how wonderfully square the boxes are. Fucking BOXES goddamn--


	2. a rare sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dash encounters Danny after a ghost fight.

Dash wasn’t the most observant of people, so the strange trajectory of Fenton’s personal development probably would never have been noticed by him if it hadn’t one day smacked him in the face out of the blue. It started, as most things in Amity Park these days do, with a ghost fight.

“Fenton?” 

The boy in question looked up from the cloth he was dabbing gingerly against one bared foot, and Dash let out a whistle between his teeth. The kid looked like he’d been through a meat grinder, or at the very least had his face dragged along some of the concrete he was sitting on. Blood trickled from the raw skin of his cheek and a gash above his left eye, his elbows and the skin of his left forearm were rough and abraded, and the knees of his jeans were completely torn through, revealing bloody knees. 

“Oh hey Dash,” Fenton answered, casual as if he weren’t sitting on a mangled slab of concrete in what was clearly the aftermath of a particularly brutal ghost fight and covered in his own blood.

“What the hell happened here?” Dash asked, more out of habit than anything else. It was -

“Pretty obviously, a ghost fight,” Fenton answered, sounding annoyed and looking back down at his foot, which, like the rest of him, was a bit bloody and battered looking.

“Well, yeah, but what happened to you?” Dash furrowed his brow in thought. “I’ve never seen you actually stick around for a ghost fight.”

Fenton gave a wry chuckle, like Dash had told a joke only he knew the punchline to. “Well, I didn’t have much of a choice this time,” he said. He stretched out his leg, wincing a little as he flexed his foot. “Have you seen my shoe anywhere around? I kind of lost it in the fight.”

“I haven’t seen your stupid shoe, Fenterella.” Dash glanced around the rubble reflexively. Still no shoe.

“Fenterell . . . Oh! Cinderella. Nice one,” Fenton grinned. “You’re getting pretty good with those name puns.”

“Thanks, I -- Hey, you’re not supposed to like them, Fentiny!” Dash glared as Fenton shrugged and stood up, wincing slightly as his bare foot dug into the rubble when he put weight on it. He watched as Fenton leaned down and picked up a battered silver thermos, which reminded him. “So, was Phantom here?”

Fenton gave another laugh. “Oh sure, you just missed him,” he said, clipping the thermos to his belt as he stood up again. “Look, I’ve got to get home, so let’s not play twenty questions, alright?”

“Wait, but . . . “ Dash paused, but then an uncharacteristic thread of concern causing him to ask, “Do you need any help? You look like you got run over by a truck. What, did the ghost decide to beat you up or something?”

“Yes, Dash, the ghost decided to beat me up,” Danny said, though the sarcasm he laced his tone with sounded forced to Dash, who was well acquainted with the skinny nerd’s sharp tongue. “I can’t believe Vlad gave Skulker the Plasmius Maximus,” he muttered as he started his limping way toward the Fentonworks sign visible in the distance.

Dash scratched his head. “Who gave who the what?”

Fenton stumbled and pulled up short, looking back at Dash almost as if he were afraid, which, Dash realized, was an expression he hadn’t had directed at him in quite a while. The boy recovered quickly, though, and kept walking, looking fiercely ahead and trying not to wince each time his bare foot stepped on a particularly sharp piece of rubble. “Nothing. Don’t you have something to do, Dash?”

“Nope,” he answered, easily keeping up as Fenton started to limp faster. “You, uh, you need help? Like, a ride to the hospital or . . . “

“What is this, some new way to torture me?” Fenton stopped suddenly, looking irritated. It would have been comical given his one shoe’d state were it not for all the bleeding. “No, Dash, I don’t want a ride to the hospital, I don’t want anything other than to get home before my sister or my parents see me.”

“Jeez, alright, Fentantrum,” Dash said, flinging his hands up. “Excuse me for showing a little concern for someone who’s bleeding from every limb.” He turned around and started stamping back the way he came. He’d only come across the scene because he was out on an errand anyway. He didn’t hear any answer from his classmate, and turning around to check, he saw that Fenton had already returned to limping determinedly down the street toward his home.

Dash shrugged it off. He wasn’t going to let Fenturd ruin his Friday night. The incident made for a funny story that night at the post game party, but other than that Dash wouldn’t have given it another thought if it hadn’t been for what happened the next Monday. Or rather, what didn’t happen. 

Fenton showed up that next Monday morning without a scratch on him. And if it hadn’t been for Dash spreading the story around that the most notoriously skittish kid in school had actually been injured in a ghost fight, probably nothing would have come of it. But famously freakish Fenton showing up after the fairly reliable and probably not clever enough to lie Dash Baxter claimed to see him covered in cuts and bleeding without any sign of recent injury was enough to set the Casper High rumor mill spinning at full tilt.


End file.
